


Pretty As A Picture

by NoWorries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Broken Families, Closeted Dean, Comedy, Europe, Explicit Language, Family Drama, Gay Castiel, Like, M/M, Parody, Romantic Comedy, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Travel, What Have I Done, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoWorries/pseuds/NoWorries
Summary: Since their early childhood, Dean and Sam have been raised as models by their father, the well-known fashion icon John Winchester. As grown-ups, the brother’s lives drifted apart. Sam, who’s even managed to earn a college degree along the way, became a famous runway model, whereas Dean just can’t seem to build a career. He’s 27 now and isn’t sure if he even wants to anymore. When Sam suddenly picks Dean up for a big gig in Europe, Dean decides he has nothing to lose. If only Sam had told Dean about this irritating model buddy of his who is coming with them...





	1. Cat Burglar

Dean was going to die.

He lay in his single bed, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t believe that the smell of beer would be the last scent he’d ever smell in his life. Cheap beer, at that. And, he noted crazily, there was also a distinctive fragrance of sweat and motor oil clouding the muggy air of his windowless bedroom.

Whoever would find his assassinated dead body first (probably his chain-smoking neighbor Adam to whom he maintained a sort of nod-in-the-hall relationship), this was what their noses were going to be confronted with. Sweat, beer and motor oil, the story of his life, intertwined to his very own odor of death. A few hours ago when Dean had paid his town’s bar a visit, he’d hoped to get lucky, but no. Not him. So, not even a whiff of sex or anything good in here. Only the depressing scents of suffocating loneliness and the sounds of someone _rummaging around his stuff in the kitchen._

Dean, with eyes open wide, watched the hand of his digital wall clock crawl past two in the morning. The invading dude in his kitchen made an obvious effort to be quiet, but little did he know Dean was a light sleeper and his apartment’s walls paper-thin. So, Dean could practically hear the dude breathing. Dean didn’t want to be murdered by a stranger. In fact, he didn’t want to be murdered by anyone. Dean suppressed a whimper, unsuccessfully.

 _Man up, Winchester,_ he thought, clenching his shaky jaw. _Enough is enough._

Despite the fact that he was trembling all over, Dean took a deep breath and eventually got out of bed as soundlessly as he could. His look whirred around his sparsely furnished, messy bedroom, the only well of light being his digital wall clock. He needed a weapon. Something heavy. Dean spotted a big, fat Oxford dictionary.

_Perfect._

Being armed, Dean, a brave soldier in Garfield boxer shorts, carefully opened his bedroom door. He held his breath when the hinges creaked and dared lurking around the corner. Luckily, the dude appeared to be distracted, because he… what the hell?

Dean frowned at the absurdity of the scene displaying before his eyes. The invader was rifling through Dean’s _fridge._

“Who the hell is this”, Dean said fiercely, stomping into the kitchen.

He lifted the dictionary slightly, ready to attack the dude who stood in the dark with his muscular back to Dean. Shocked, the dude dropped a bottle of orange juice, but promptly caught it in the air before it hit ground.

 _Nice reflexes_ , Dean thought _. And intimidatingly tall. Long, shiny hair. Wait a minute—_

_“Sammy?”_

The dude turned around, smiling apologetically and holding his hands up. “Hey, Dean. Wow, this is—uh. Wow! Good to see you. It’s Sam, by the way.”

Shit. Dean couldn’t believe it. _Sammy._ How long had it been? Two years? Three?

Dean barely remembered an awkward family gathering, initiated by their Mum, who sometimes tried to pretend they were a functional family.  It had been her 40th birthday. Dean had tried so hard to get along with everyone on that special day, juggling with words while also fighting to maintain his confident-about-his-own-future-façade. _Yeah, this garage job really ain’t the stuff_ , he remembered saying to his Mum, who’d been worrying about his horn-ridged hands. _But it’s just for the summer, until I can afford a place over at The Big Orange. Already got a couple of modeling agencies picked out who’ve been eyeing me for some time._ _From then on, it’s gonna be model chicks, contouring and rock’n’roll._

She’d bought his confident grin. They all had. But as soon as Sammy had finally arrived (hours too late for the festivities, like a true fashion diva), all of Dean's efforts had amounted to nothing. Dean faintly remembered moping in the corner of the living room, grumbling to the family dog about how if _he_ ’d been late, everyone would’ve uttered a collective: “figures”. Or they’d just exchanged knowing looks, mutely saying: _that’s our Dean for ya._

Instead of giving Sammy shit, however, everyone had been bursting with pride, babbling about Sammy’s latest underwear show, perfume ad, latest gig for l’Oréal or whatever he’d been up to back then.

 _And what about you, Dean_ , aunt Ellen had inevitably asked at the dinner table when conversation topics had started wearing thin. _Are you modeling again?_

 _No, no, but it’s gonna happen soon. Currently, I’m_ , Dean had begun slowly, all expectant eyes on him, _working at a garage._ _Fixing cars. Checking the oil._ _Y’know._  
  
Awkward shifting and averted eyes all around.  
  
_S’all just temporary. A temporary… thing_ , he’d went on, sounding like an idiot. _S’gonna be one of those rags-to-the-riches kinda deals. It's just a summer job, anyway. We’ve all been there, right? Once I’ll have the cash for my own place at The Big Orange, it’s all gonna be—_

He’d stopped talking and stuffed his face with mashed potatoes.

 _—swell_ , he’d finished, unintelligible, suddenly too tired to even face aunt Ellen’s sympathetic smile. He was tired from trying to keep up the charade of being anything other than a poorly paid loser who always had a stinky motor oil stain _somewhere_ on his clothes. Table conversations had been cautiously starting again during his reply to Ellen’s question, as if he was some embarrassing drunk relative talking gibberish and not Dean talking about his plans for the future.

_S’gonna be so swell._

Dean had left early, pathetically sobbing in his car while singing along to Bob Seger songs.

And now here Sammy was. The big supermodel and straight-A graduate from Stanford, enveloped up to his ears in an ugly-ass red cashmere pullover combined with fancy sweat pants and shiny boots. Dean guessed this was Sammy trying to nail the casual, not-really-trying look. Two rivaling brothers, one of them a sparkly, well-toned supermodel, the other one a smelly, kind of chubby-around-the-tummy, Garfield-boxers wearing car mechanic, facing each other in the dark. Dean rubbed his eyes.

“Are you high?” Dean barked. “And how did you even get in? What are you _doing?_ It’s been years, dude. You sure you’re not needed in, like, Paris or something? Haute Couture or whatever?”

“Well, actually,” Sam replied, cautiously smirking. “I _am_ needed in Paris. In fact, _we_ are. That’s why I’m here.”

Dean shook his head, blinking. “The hell are you talking about? It’s two in the morning!”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I tried to call you tonight at around ten but you didn’t answer.”

“Well, duh, some people have lives”, Dean bitched, not fooling anyone, though. He briefly thought back to his crappy evening, groaning. “I dropped my phone in the men’s room and it fell to a thousand pieces, man. I had a shitty-ass day and—now _you_ show up here. What’s next?”

“I know, Dean”, Sam replied. “I know, and I’m sorry. But this is important. We got work to do.”

 _“We?”_ Dean repeated, annoyed. “There _is_ no we. There hasn’t been a we in a damn long time.”

Sam stepped closer, his eyes lighting up eerily. “Dean, listen. Dad wants us to pick up where he left off. Saving calories, hunting bargains, the family business.”

At Sam’s enthusiasm, Dean was weirded-the-fuck out. “Yeah, so? What else is new? And as far as I now, your bargain hunting days are long over. You’re rich, man. You’ve leveled up! Sexiest man of 2016, or so I’ve heard.” Actually Dean had read it in Cosmo, but only because he’d gotten bored at the hair dresser.

Sam laughed. “Dean, I’m not _rich._ I’m not…” He stopped, muted by Dean’s silent glare. “Alright, I may be a successful model in the states”, Sam continued, “but—Europe, man! Just imagine!” Sam’s eyes were practically glowing in the dark.

“You’re scaring me, dude,” Dean said. “What’s this even about? What’s your crazy ambitions got to do with me, huh?”

“Well, get this,” Sam began, making an emphasizing hand gesture. “It’s fashion week in Paris and tomorrow’s the big show. Karl Lagerfeld big. I’m in already.”

“Of course you are”, Dean said.

“Now about eight hours ago, my agent called me. Two models got the flu and they need substitutes as quickly as possible. And guess what?”

“You want to take me to Paris,” Dean guessed dryly. This was ridiculous.

“Yeah! Poor them, lucky us!”

“You and me. On a road trip”, Dean went on, unimpressed. “Sharing the same rooms, breathing the same air for a good three days. Good times, man. Also, I don’t even _do_ runways. Scares the hell out of me. You know that!”

“Aw, come on!” Sam laughed. “Don’t be afraid of the catwalk.”

“Don’t be afraid of the catwalk?” Dean repeated, hissing. “Are you kidding me, Sammy, you know what’s out there!”

“ _Dean._ I’m going. Now. I’m hopping on the next plane. Tonight. Take it or leave it, man, but you won’t get another chance like this ever again. Not from me, anyway.”

“Well, thanks for believing in me, little brother!”

In response, Sam only bitch-faced.

Sam threw the orange juice into his trendy mini backpack—Dean blinked, having only ever seen them on college chicks—and noisily pulled up the zipper. He did so in a flippant, provocative manner, and Dean was briefly taken back to a time when Sammy had simply been his pubescent baby brother, who’d always been looking up to Dean, even if he’d have never admitted it. Nowadays, there really wasn’t much to look up to when it came to Dean. Certainly Dean couldn’t impress him anymore by scaring bullies away on the schoolyard and popping for a cone of ice cream afterwards.

Sam shouldered his backpack and stood, looking down at Dean, both literally and figuratively.  “Your door was unlocked, by the way”, Sam said, not hiding his judgement. “I knocked several times, but”, he paused, gesturing at the army of empty beer cans deployed all across the kitchen, “you seemed _dead asleep.”_

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but had no idea how to defend himself when his place was looking and smelling the way it was. So, he closed it again and just glowered at Sammy until he got the message and turned to leave with a shake of his head.

At the sight of Sammy making his way out of the apartment (parkouring between cardboard boxes full of clutter), Dean’s heart suddenly started racing again. He froze and didn’t know what to do.

He was pissed-off, but at the same time—it wasn’t like Dean had anything to lose. He was single, didn’t have really good friends, so no one would miss him over the week-end. Actually, he wouldn’t have to notify a single soul about leaving for the week-end, he realized, which struck him as mildly depressing. There wasn’t even a house plant he had to find someone to look after.

And Monday morning, he’d be back in the dusty old garage, where there were no chances of promotion or salary increase whatsoever, lousy traffic of hardly two customers a day and sweaty, greasy middle-aged men all over. Standing in the narrow hall of his apartment, watching his long-lost brother stumble over Dean’s gigantic working boots, he had the sudden realization that this was his _life._ He didn’t want it to be, he wanted photo shoots, expensive leather jackets and hot model chicks clinging to his elbows like his father and brother had, but _this_ was his life, deadlocked. Because—as Sammy had so very nicely pointed out—he had no big chances in sight. Ever.

He was _free_. And this, as ridiculous as it seemed, looked like

( _a big chance_ , his mind whispered)

an adventure. Didn’t Dean do adventures, at least? He did, part of his brain said. In fact, that was exactly what his life was missing.

But this was _Sam._

They weren’t—he couldn’t—fuck.

Heart pounding, Dean watched Sam bitch-face at him one more time over his shoulder, door knob in his hand. Panicking, Dean had a mental black-out and blurted out the next best thing that came to his mind.

“I’m afraid of planes, Sam! You know that! Planes are scary!”

Sam was taken aback for a moment. Dean almost swallowed his own tongue, staring at him. Dean’s throat felt as dry as Sahara Desert. Then Sam just laughed, relieved, and patted Dean’s stiff shoulder.

“I knew I could count on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story some time ago and had a lot of fun with it. If you guys like it, I'll get to work and revisit the other chapters for editing. Enjoy.


	2. The Sacred Halls

Cursing, Dean awkwardly tried climbing into the backseat of Sam’s tiny car.

The dude was probably a millionaire, and yet he couldn’t seem to afford a proper sled (with enough space for people who weren’t as thin as paper cutouts). _It’s called staying down-to-earth, Dean_ , Sammy had bitched two years ago. That, however, was called _greed_ in Dean’s book. He wasn’t surprised to find out that his brother was still driving this lemon, which could definitely use an inspection rather sooner than later, looking at the flickering headlights. Dean hit his head a thousand times, but managed eventually.

“Hello, Dean.”

And Dean hit his head once more.

On the seat next to him sat some strange dude… wearing a trench coat. Who the hell wore trench coats? Dean’s confused look found a blue _tie_ on top of it (with the wrong side up, he noticed) and slowly reached the stranger’s face.

 _Hot damn_ , was Dean’s initial, impulsive thought.

 _He looks like he’s gonna try selling me an automatic vacuum cleaner any second now, and I’m pretty sure I’d buy one_ , was Dean’s second thought.

 _He’s a_ dude, was Dean’s third thought. _Stop drooling._

A pinch of guilt bore through him, much like the stranger who was looking daggers at him.

Suddenly, Dean wished he’d have shuffled on another outfit, literally _any_ other outfit that wasn’t his washed-out Led Zep t-shirt combined with oil-stained jeans and holey sneakers. Clenching his jaw, he felt like himself again and addressed the stranger in the strange attire.

“Who the hell are you? And why do you know my name?”

In the front seat, Sam chuckled, busy starting the motor.

“Oh, Sam told me”, the stranger replied, briefly smiling. “I am Castiel. Very pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah, okay”, Dean frowned, slightly irritated again by that smile. Because damn if that dude wasn’t ( _adorable_ ) provoking the hell out of him. “Hi, I guess. But I mean, _what_ are you?”

“I’m an angel of Victor’s secret”, Cas replied, with a tone of voice as if that was some kind of sacred profession.

“Victor’s secret?” Dean repeated. He turned to Sam, who was backing out of the parking space. “There’s no such thing, right, Sam?”

“Actually, there is”, Sam replied. “It’s a pretty successful thing, actually. If you would try staying up to date for once, you would know about stuff like that. Guess things didn’t really change, then.”

“You don’t know me”, Dean bitched and held out his flat hand to Sam. “Shut up and gimme your phone. I wanna google it.”

“You don’t own a phone?” Cas asked, frowning. “Sam has informed me that you are a bit of a fossil, but not owning a phone is so 2005. Kind of like your leather jacket.”

“Your face is 2005”, Dean retorted, and immediately regretted his middle school come-back. He didn’t dare meeting those eyes again. Even in the dark, they were strikingly blue, and something about that just bugged the hell out of Dean. Dean snatched the phone out of Sam’s hand, receiving weak protest, and not knowing what else to do with himself—with that _person_ so close to him—he started googling Victor’s Secret.

“Hey—uh—what’s your name again?” Dean said to Cas, shyly glancing at him.

“Castiel Krushnic”, Cas replied, helpfully. “Would you like me to spell it for you, Dean?”

“I ain’t stupid, Victor’s Angel”, Dean scoffed. Hit or miss, he googled ‘Cassielle Crushnick Victor’s Secret’.

It seemed to be close enough.

Definitely a hit.

Numerous pictures of Cas showed up, and nothing could’ve prepared Dean for them. Nothing at all. Immediately, Dean could feel his cheeks blush, his face getting embarrassingly hot, and he was very thankful for the dark of night. 

Cas on the catwalk, wearing nothing but seriously too tight boxer shorts, which didn’t leave many questions unanswered. Cas at a photoshoot, his appearance all leather and sharp edges, with his hair spiked-up, looking like some rock star. And—that one was the worst by far—Cas in friggin’ satin panties, suggestively posing on top of a king-sized bed for some gay mag that Dean had briefly heard of, leaving little room to imagination.

That last one made Dean drop the phone like a hot potato.

 _Fashion pics_ , Dean internally told himself, gulping. _Just professional fashion pics. Act like you’re used to this.  
_

“So?” Cas asked him, conversationally. “What do you think? I could recommend you to the agency of Victor’s Secret, if you like.”

“What? No”, Dean squeaked, and quickly cleared his throat. He slowly picked up the dropped phone, using the time to compose himself, and then half-way turned to Cas with what he hoped was a laid-back, colleague-like expression on his face. “I mean, no, I don’t really do catwalks. Or underwear. Not—satin, anyway.”

_Crap._

“Oh, you saw _that_ one”, Cas said, frowning. “You found my picture for Boys Weekly.”

“No, no, I didn’t”, Dean waved him off, faking a laugh. His heart started pounding ever so hard in his chest, especially when Sam curiously lurked over his shoulder, following their conversation with undisguised interest. “I mean yeah, my eyes kinda washed over it for a sec. Heh. No big deal, though. I’m a professional. My eyes observe professionally.” _Shut up, moron._ “What I’m trying to say is, hey, man, whatever floats your boat. I’m cool with it.”

“I am quite sure of that”, Cas said, calmly folding his hands in his lap. “It’s not a problem for me if anyone sees that picture. I’m proud of it, actually. It’s a popular magazine. Well, in the community, anyway.”

“Community”, Dean repeated, nervously checking on Sam. He was just driving now, staring out of the front window. “You mean the community of underwear models or what?”

“No, Dean. I mean the gay community. Aren’t you gay, Dean?”

Sam snorted. Of course he’d been still listening.

Dean’s face went blank and he pointed at Sam. “Shut your face!”

“Ah, I understand”, Cas claimed, sheepishly. “Difficult topic.”

“What? No”, Dean replied, glancing at Cas. “I just don’t really swing that way, s’all.”

“Not _really?_ So you are bisexual?”

“Look, can we just change the damn topic?"

“Strange. My gaydar has proven to be quite functional. It has never disappointed me before. And you, Dean, seem to be _very_ —“

“Hey, Sammy, you still into AC/DC?” Dean blurted out, quickly cutting Cas off right there. “Why don’t we throw on some music. Get this party started. Woo-hoo.”

 _“Still?”_ Sam doubtfully eyed Dean in the mirror. “I’ve never been into AC/DC. That’s always been just Dad and you. But I do have the runway tracks for the show in Paris somewhere here. Let’s listen to them instead. You should prepare yourself for the rhythm, Dean.”

“But I don’t _do_ friggin’ runways, Sam. And honestly, runway music sounds like torture to my ears.”

“C’mon, man”, Sam insisted. “Why else are you here? Paris needs you.”

“Yeah, well, but I don’t need her.” Dean rolled his eyes. What had he been thinking? “Just throw me out at the next gas station, all right.”

“Don’t leave, Dean”, Cas suddenly chimed in, grasping his attention.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder, firm yet hesitant.

“We’ve only just met”, Cas argued further. “I promise I’ll show you the ways of the runway world. You’ll be good at it. You have those special legs that are going to make people look after you and maybe even book you afterwards. This is your chance, Dean.”

Dean sighed, crossing his arms. It wasn’t. It wasn’t a chance for him. No one could sit on their ass for five years, not even bothering to keep up with the latest fashion developments, newcomers and so on and then just fly to Europe and run at a major show in a fashion metropole. It wasn’t a thing that happened. Ever. Also, he wasn’t so sure what was supposed to be bookable about his legs. And there was no sign or trace of a six pack on his tummy. In fact, he’d kinda put on weight lately ( _Starting to blend in with the guys in the garage_ , he thought) and wasn’t too eager on showcasing himself. At the very least to the kind of audience that was awaiting them over the pond, because they weren’t too kind to newbies, he knew.

“Thanks, but—“, he began.

“Please”, Cas added, urgently squeezing his shoulder now. Dean flinched, but didn’t protest. “It’ll be a pleasurable experience, I am quite sure.”

Their eyes met in the dark.

All too many seconds had passed when Dean broke the hypnotic connection.

“Yeah, okay”, Dean gave in without thinking, throat suddenly dry. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his jeans. “I’m game.”

“Again: I knew I could count on you”, Sam said, fiddling with a neon-colored CD cover.

“You’ve come to the right decision”, Cas agreed.

“Whatever”, Dean muttered, scratching his cheek. “Guess I’m all for pleasurable experiences. And hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Mere seconds later, the funky rhythms of Madonna’s _Celebration_ came in, and they boomed into a week-end so full of promise.

 *

“Hey, remember when I asked about the worst thing that could happen?”

Cas looked up from his book, but only for half a second. He was sitting next to Dean, as calm as the sea that was soon to be way below them. “Yes. It was a rhetorical question, as I recall.”

“It’s planes”, Dean breathed, talking too fast for his own good. “Planes are the answer. We’re gonna die, man. This is it.”

Pressing his eyes shut, Dean prepared for their inevitable death. Next to him, book pages were fluttering, and Dean was briefly reminded that he was on the plane with an internationally famous male model who’d probably made a second home way above the Atlantic a long time ago. He didn’t have time to expand the thought, however, because something was happening to the plane, it was _moving_ , oh God, this couldn’t be right—

_Parachute… where the hell is my… oxygen mask…_

Then, a feeling so horrible Dean thought he couldn’t take it. Like being on a roller coaster, only without the fun. And the noise—

“Are we blasting off now? Oh God, we’re blasting off now.”

“Dean”, Cas said, looking up from his book once more. “This is not a rocket. Have you never been on a plane before?”

“Nope”, Dean brought out, choked. He’d made a huge mistake. “Planes are scary. Why would I do this to myself? Why would anyone—“

With surprising, terrifying power, Dean was pressed into his seat when the plane slowly lifted off the ground. Dean started hyperventilating, while Cas turned a page of his book with godlike patience and calm. Then, without looking up from the page, he mutely put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. With big eyes and hitching breath, Dean looked at the stubbly face next to him, trying to control his breathing. It was kinda calming him, Cas’ touch.

“Are you sure that you would not rather like to sit next to Sam? Maybe the experience would be less scary for you if you had company that you’re more comfortable with. You would feel safer.”

“Heh”, Dean made, lips twitching into an awkward smile. “We ain’t too close, Sammy and me. Family issues. Plus, he’s a smug smartass. Wouldn’t want to do _that_ to myself, either.”

Cas hesitated. “So you think I’m good company?”

“Yeah”, Dean confirmed, nervously eyeing Cas from aside. “Sure, why not. You’re a cool guy, I guess.”

“Well”, Cas replied, lifting his brows and focusing back on his book. “I wouldn’t particularly describe myself as a ‘cool guy’, but I appreciate the compliment.”

“Well, how would you describe yourself, then?” Dean asked, trying hard to distract himself from the rising altitude of the plane.

“Very gay”, Cas replied, calmly turning the page.

Dean goggled at Cas, mouth-opened. What kind of answer was that? Cas simply kept reading, slightly frowning now.

“That’s it?” Dean asked as the silence between them stretched. “Just ‘very gay’?”

“Yes”, Cas replied, reading. “Is that a problem for you, Dean?”

“No. No, of course not. Thought I’ve already made that clear. Gay is okay, right? Gays are… gay.”

 _Just stop talking,_ Dean thought, inwardly slapping his own face. Cas glanced at Dean, doubtfully.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” Dean went on to change the topic. “Just making small-talk, y’know. I ain’t hitting on you or anything. Obviously.”

“No, Dean, I am currently not in a relationship. But who knows? Paris is full of best-dressed men. Maybe I’ll meet someone there.”

“Yeah, maybe”, Dean awkwardly repeated, shifting on his seat. “Me too. I mean, French girls are the best. With their accents and all. Really hot.”

“Qui, j’approuve. Est-ce que tu parles français, Dean?”

“What now?” Dean asked, flustered.

“Do you speak French”, Cas repeated, uninterested. “But I suppose your reaction is pretty self-explanatory. À propos, j’aime ton derrière, Dean.”

Dean blinked, taken by Cas’ French. “What was that?”

“I said I like your butt”, Cas explained, matter-of-factly.

Dean choked on air. “ _What?”_

“You asked”, Cas simply put him off, calmly reading on.

Speechless, Dean stared at Cas for a couple of seconds. He’d never been talked to like that (by a guy, mind you)—and he’d experienced a _lot_ of unfiltered locker-room-like talk in the garage with the guys, thank you very much. Cas ignored his stare, as if this was how he always talked to strangers. Hell, perhaps it was. Dean didn’t know this guy. Maybe they shouldn’t talk at all. This was bad. He would probably pass out soon if Cas kept talking about his butt like that—in _French—_ and if the plane kept producing these laborious noises.

So, Dean forced himself to close his eyes and focus on his breathing. _In. Out. In. Out._ Things went pretty okay, until Dean opened his eyes and almost had a heart attack when he found Cas just _staring_ at him like a creep.

“What do you think you’re doing”, Dean hissed, gathering himself.

“I’d like to go to the toilet for a minute, if that is all right with you”, Cas replied, dead-seriously. “I thought you were asleep. Or possibly passed out. I was waiting for you to open your eyes so I could notify you about my departure.”

Dean felt too awkward to comment on the weirdness of Cas’ explanation, or on the fact that Cas seemed to think Dean wildly cared about his absence. As if he was a scared little girl who couldn't be left alone or something.

Silently, Dean watched Cas get up from his seat.

Suddenly, Cas stopped, standing still in the aisle and looking at him with light-blue eyes. There was a strange sparkle in them now, Dean noticed, and he couldn’t quite place its kind. His first impression was that it seemed sort of… _sexual_ , but due to the ridiculousness of the idea, he quickly brushed it off.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Cas.”

Cas hesitated. “Would you like to come with me?”

Seconds passed in silence between the two of them.

Dean, breaking into perspiration, experienced them in slow-motion, looking over his shoulder about a hundred times to see if anyone— _anyone_ —had heard Cas’ invitation (especially looking at the hot blonde stewardess Dean had chatted with when they entered).

Cas remained unimpressed by both the silence and Dean’s behavior, showing no signs of discomfort or searching for the right words to apologize—like, you know, _whoops, that did come out kind of wrong. What I was actually trying to say to you, Dean, instead of blatantly inviting you to have plane sex with me—a strange guy whom you’ve just met a couple of hours ago—was…_

“A joke”, Cas explained, frowning. Dean didn’t hear him.

“No, thanks”, Dean said. “Told you, I ain’t that kinda guy.”

“Dean, I was joking.”

“I mean, do I find men attractive? Sure, but only the ones that are _hot_ , like… in a _hot chick_ kind of way. Don’t mean I wanna bang ‘em. It’s like spotting a steaming, fresh pie at the bakery. It looks amazing, smells even better, but turns out it’s filled with marzipan and raisins. Wouldn’t wanna eat _that_.” Dean stopped, out of breath. He looked at Cas, sweat glistening on his forehead, and finally his brain processed Cas’ words.

“You’re—“

“Joking”, Cas confirmed, frown deepening. “Yes. I tried to erase my unfortunate mistake from earlier, when I called you ‘gay’ in front of your brother. I was hoping to lighten the mood by joking about it. My apologies.”

“Really.” Dean swallowed, rubbing his thigh. “That’s…” ( _A shame_ , his mind whispered), “funny. Hilarious.”

“You’re not laughing.”

Dean faked a grin, pointing at Cas. “A classic.”

Cas didn’t seem convinced, but luckily, he finally turned to leave. Before Dean had a chance to say anything more, Cas was already gone, like he’d dematerialized on the spot.

Dean sunk in his seat.

If only some chick had picked him up when he was at the bar earlier tonight. Sam wouldn’t have found him, he would’ve slumbered peacefully in a strange bed after some sexy action, and—most importantly—he wouldn’t have ended up comparing his viewing of attractive men to marzipan pie.

*

Cloudy skies above Paris.

On the cab, Dean had not only been confronted with more of Cas’ French when he’d (presumably) given the driver directions, but he’d also detected the Eiffel Tower in the distance. He had yet to find out just why this city was supposed to be the City of Love. Probably just some well-protected myth to lure tourists and keep the economy stable.

The three of them—“Team Treadmill”, Dean had joked earlier out of sleep deprivation, but it had fallen kind of flat—hadn’t even had time to check into their hotel yet, when things started to get messy.

A chilly breeze was creeping underneath Dean’s leather jacket as they approached the sacred halls of Paris Fashion Week. The place looked spick and span from the outside, and Dean didn’t expect it to look any more comforting on the inside. But first, they had to get in there, and apparently, a cheeky grin wouldn’t do for a key word.

Four hours until the big show, Dean was welcomed to the show avenue with a heart-warming: “ _This_ is the substitute you chose to bring, Sam?”

The doorman Bobby looked like he’d had a rough day, or rather life. The headset draped on top of his tattered base cap wasn’t far from falling off, and the checklist in his hand was showing crinkled traces of anger. It was pretty obvious to Dean that he’d rather be someplace else, preferably where they had more whiskey and less unpunctual high-fashion models. He seemed as if he hadn’t slept in days and everything that could possibly go wrong _was_ going wrong right now, but maybe that look was just a casual Paris thing.

“Look at his legs! Those ain’t runway legs, Sam.”

Dean threw Cas an accusing look. “Thanks, man. You’ve told me I had _special legs.”_

Cas opened his mouth to say something in return, but Bobby interrupted.

“Oh, they’re special, all right”, he grunted, checking Sam’s and Cas’ name on the list. A few super-skinny models slipped outside past him, going for a smoke, and Dean briefly wondered if they were going to make it through the night. “You got bow-legs, boy. That ain’t material for Paris. And you’re too,” he gestured Dean’s body up and down, to Dean’s horror lingering at his tummy, “ _pudgy_. Or—thick. Whatever you kids call it nowadays. Take a look around, boy. Don’t take a genius to see that you don’t fit in around here.”

Dean rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “Well, at least I ain’t gonna faint halfway across the runway.”

“C’mon, Bobby”, Sam begged. “At least let him introduce himself to the showrunners, all right? I promise, he’s a hidden talent. Otherwise I wouldn’t have brought him all the way from America.”

Bobby ignored him, skimming the list.

“It’s 2017”, Cas argued, protectively stepping in front of Dean. Dean blinked. “People are fond of imperfections. Dean’s legs are strong and different.”

“Well, congratulations, Cas”, Bobby bitched, eye-battling with Cas. “You’ve found yourself a pretty boy toy there. But he ain’t skinny enough for Paris. Go downtown, all three of you, and find me a boy who has the certain Paris factor, will ya. ‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t him.”

“Yeah, you know what”, Dean grumbled, making a definite move to leave. “I don’t like Paris. I’m outta here.”

Sam gasped. “Dean—“

“ _And_ unprofessional”, Bobby added. “Next you’re telling me he doesn’t know how to own the runway.”

“I’ll show him”, Cas said, voice firm. Without turning around, he grabbed Dean by the shoulder, preventing him from leaving. “We still have more than three hours of time before the show starts. I’ll teach him my tricks and prepare him well. Trust me, Bobby. I don’t want the show to fail, either. But Dean has potential, and all I’m asking for is for you to give him a chance.”

“A chance?” Bobby repeated. “Is this a joke? This is Paris. This is one of the biggest, most demanded shows on the entire planet, boy. You want a _chance_ , you start at a small-caliber agency in Berlin or Brussels.”

“You just literally ordered us to pick a random dude from the streets”, Dean threw in, angrily. “Why ain’t _I_ worth a chance?”

“Because”, Bobby began, pointing at Dean’s chest. “I don’t see your so-called potential. You’re just some averaged Kansas boy with a big mouth and slanting legs. That ain’t worth crap around here.”

Dean swallowed, steeling his jaw.

“Bobby”, Sam groaned. “Please. I’ll pay for it if he screws up.”

“Oh, now you’re suddenly rich”, Dean said, spitefully. “I don’t need your friggin’ money, Sam.”

“Then don’t screw up!”

“You don’t need to _buy_ me chances, okay”, Dean bitched at him. “So what, I’m a friggin’ failure, but I’m okay with it. You’re the big supermodel in Paris, and I’m the loser with the bow-legs. Big deal. I’ll just have a dozen croissants downtown and then hop on the next flight home. Nice trip.”

“Shut up, Dean”, Cas interrupted. He turned to Bobby, determined, his stare making the air crackle around him. “Listen, old man. Either you’ll give him a chance, or you’ll lose me for the show.”

“Oh, wonderful”, Bobby exclaimed, angrily waving in a few more models that Dean had never seen before. “Now you’re blackmailing me. Ya know, the only reason I ain’t throwing your ass out right about now, Cas, is that there are people who are comin’ just for you.”

Cas smiled, coldly. “So, we have an agreement?”

Bobby sighed dramatically.

Dean’s heart was thudding.

“Fine”, Bobby barked, eventually, wildly gesticulating with his crinkly checklist and almost losing the headset. “Bring your boy to the damn show runners, Cas, and let them tell you in detail how unsuitable he is. Perhaps you’ll listen to them instead.”

Sam and Dean uttered a relieved breath in unison.

“I doubt that”, Cas said. “Thank you, Bobby. Always a pleasure talking to you.”

“Yeah, yeah”, Bobby grumbled, shooing the three of them in.


	3. Catwalk Training

Dean rushed out of the office room. Cas followed. Their rapid steps resounded, and made two French-speaking security guards who were mumbling to each other in the corner of the hallway lose the thread. Dean imbibed the fresh air with the eagerness of a drowning man who’d just hit surface. It’d been so friggin’ tense in there, the air too thick to breathe in.

Dean released a shaky puff of breath. “I’m in.”

“Yes, you are”, Cas said.

“I can’t believe I’m in. What are they, nuts?”

“I believe it’s more of a combination of fate”, Cas explained while trying to keep Dean’s pace, “and being the big brother of the right person just at the right point in time. You’re very lucky, considering how old this planet is. I fought years to receive a chance at this very show.”

“Great, now I feel bad.”

A pause. Cas mused. Then: “Do you believe in fate, Dean?”

At once, the echo of their footsteps fell silent. Cas bumped face-first into Dean’s shoulder, but was given no time to complain, because Dean swirled around to confront him face-to-face. Dean shook his head slightly, furrowing his brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you believe in fate”, Cas repeated, slower now, staring at Dean in wonder.

Dean asked himself how much more absurd this day could get. First, he gets the go from the stressed-out showrunners without even having to showcase his rusty catwalk skills or defending his not-so fit body ( _take that, friggin’ Bobby_ ), and next thing he knew, his new side-kick Castiel, Angel of Victor’s Secret, gets all Socrates on him.

Dean didn’t even know what to reply, especially with those intense eyes robbing him of any snarky come-back on his mind. So, he uttered a small chuckle, and then closed his mouth, meaning to end this discussion before it even started. They really should focus on the important, _reasonable_ stuff right now.

But Cas seemed to differ in opinion.

“Good things do happen, Dean”, he said.

For another moment, Dean maintained the eye contact, meaning to break loose, but he found it nearly impossible to do that.

“Not in my experience.”

Cas frowned. “You’re running at Paris Fashion Week. That’s a good thing.”

“Yeah, right. Let’s wait to get all hyped up about that until it’s over and done with. Getting in? Shiny! Not screwing it up? Well, let’s see about that…”

“You’re underestimating your abilities”, Cas claimed with certainty, as if they’d known each other for centuries.

“Yeah, and you’re a dick.”

Dean immediately regretted his words. They’d just come out. But then he remembered Cas attacking his leather jacket’s trendiness back in Sam’s car, which had been outright _rude_ , and figured that yeah, Cas kind of _was_ a dick. Not to mention that Cas’ preacher-like attitude was bugging the hell out of him right now. He added it to his inner reasons-why-Cas-is-a-dick list.

Cas didn’t even flinch. He cocked his head like an attentive puppy, considering. “I don’t understand. Am I not of help to you?”

 “So far”, Dean began, “No. Can’t say that much. I still feel rather helpless, thanks to you doing too much of the philosophizing and too little of the teaching me how to walk the friggin’ plank thing. So, why don’t we stop talking about whatever it is we’re talking about and get to work already, teach.” Dean got under way with fast steps. “Gotta be trained.”

Cas didn’t answer, or follow at first. When he did answer, Dean wished he hadn’t. Cas’ voice sounded as if he had an epiphany. It was a little scary. And not to mention none of his business.

“You don’t think you deserve to be a model”, said Cas, quietly.

This time, Dean didn’t answer. Not at all.

*

“Okay, Dean, show me what you’ve got!” Cas called, business-like tone.

Dean wasn't sure who was the more bothering, preacher-Cas or he-who-must-be-obeyed Cas.

All things considered, Dean decided that the massive concert hall surrounding the two of them like a portal to hell had to be the most bothersome thing happening at the moment. Cas and him had been granted access to the huge hall where the runway and just about ten thousand seats were located. Yup, ten thousand. Millions of spotlights on the ceiling above them, too. Needless to say, Dean was trembling with fear.

Apart from a few technicians roaming around the place and the one or other manager searching for some lost model, the two of them were left to themselves and just starting practicing on the runway. The showrunners had given them exactly sixty minutes to upgrade Dean’s lousy walking style, or, in their words, “to grant him the opportunity to learn from the best, ‘cause he better not fail Virgil.”.

Virgil Abloh was the dude who was responsible for the outfit Dean was going to present tonight. Apparently, some people perceived the designer as a _prince_ of his craft, which _—_ apart from making him dead nervous _—_ had almost made Dean laugh out loud. Dean hadn’t seen his runway outfit yet, but judging from the critical looks his body had received from the show runner’s assistant (a young chick named Amanda with big hair and obviously even bigger ambitions), he probably wasn’t going to be send out there naked from the waist up. Which was a relieve, don’t get him wrong. But he doubted that _Virgil_ ’s collection contained any bulky potato sacks all the same. It was going to be an all Menswear-show in the style of luxurious streetwear, the show runner had said.

_Whatever that means_ , he’d muttered to assistant Amanda. _Right?_

It was supposed to make her laugh. Unfortunately, she’d only looked at him as though he were mad. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure why they’d allowed him to actually do this. This was eleven kinds of crazy.

“Dean!” Cas called again, waiting for him at the end of the lit runway like a father teaching his kid to walk. “Go!”

“In a minute!" Dean yelled.

He closed his eyes. His thoughts were racing, head spinning a little.

_Focus. Stop shaking._

_Stop being such a—_

He couldn’t fake it. Couldn’t.

“I can’t do it, Cas”, he whispered.

When Dean cast up his eyes, he saw his holey sneakers, looking so out of place standing on this slippery million dollar glass runway. He stared at his own reflection and saw a man who belonged many places _—_ in a grubby small-town bar, for instance, where he should've stayed just a little longer the day before _—_ but who certainly had no place around these high-end people and in this high-end show. Then he noticed Cas’ black leather shoes above his reflection's head.

Cas suddenly stood right before him, hands to the sides. In the light, he kind of looked… extraterrestrial, like an angel, Dean thought. He radiated calmness and professionalism, and Dean envied him.

“Have faith”, Cas advised.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, right. Here we go again.”

Suddenly, Cas’ facial expression darkened, somehow. As though he finally realized that he wasn’t going to get very far with his whole _faith_ crap and believe-in-yourself deal when it came to Dean.

“There’s no going back, Dean”, Cas said, eyes cold. “The show is starting in less than three hours. And you are going to be a part of it. Whether you like it or not.”

Dean knew he was right. Of course he did.

He shuffled his feet.

“All right”, Dean said, forcing his voice up. “No more chickening out. I'd prefer practicing somewhere more private, though. Can’t concentrate when there’s people watching.”

“In three hours, there are going to be plenty of people watching.”

“Yeah, I know, but”, Dean whined, and accidentally made eye-contact with a curious technician passing them by. Dean coughed slightly. “Okay. Fine. This is it. I signed a contract, and now I gotta deliver, right? Ain’t my problem if I blow it. ‘Cause I sure as hell ain’t European. And there’s no reputation I could ruin, ‘cause no one even knows who I am.”

Cas smiled. Dean wasn’t sure if he was being taken seriously. “Come on, Dean.” He checked his IPhone, slowly stepping backwards to reassume his position at the end of the catwalk. “We have 52 minutes left. That will have to be enough.”

Dean strained his jaw, composing himself.

_I got this_. _I’ve done this one or two times before. I can do this. I_ can _do catwalks._

When Cas was back in position, Dean took one deep breath, focused his look on some distant point above Cas’ head, and simply started walking. He hardly had any professional knowledge of what he was supposed to do, and it showed, and he felt it. He looked like some try-hard dude at a casting for America’s Next Topmodel, his upper body being stiff and robotic instead of going with the flow of his footsteps.

_Pretend that you’re somewhere else when you’re out there_ , the calming voice of an old runway coach he’d once had came to his mind. _Pretend that you’re with Mommy and Daddy in Disneyland, if it helps your fear. Just don’t forget to move your legs, kiddo._

Oh, right. Now Dean remembered the occasion when he’d received this—his very first—runway advice. The aforementioned coach had been a nice, young lady in an elf costume. Coach Stacey. Dean remembered being fascinated by her pretty, red curls.

It’d been around Christmas time ’98 or ’99 and his Dad had opened up a chance for him to run a kids’ fashion show in the local mall. Boy, had the great John Winchester been proud of him. Well, up until the part of his run where Dean had tripped up on his pants (They were too big for a ten-year-old boy!) and involuntarily dived head-first into the crowd, that was.

Never in his life had Dean forgotten the look on his Dad’s face after that show. Sometimes Dean still thought that perhaps, that was the exact day his Dad had stopped believing and investing in his oldest son.

Right now, roughly seventeen years later and back on the runway again, Dean found it hard to find any comfort in the thought of being in Disneyland with his parents. Instead, his Dad’s face manifested in his mind, huge and frightening, wearing the facial expression from the day in the mall, the one that you’d find in the dictionary under disappointment.

Dean felt his entire body convulsing. He stuffed his hands in his jeans’ pockets and concentrated on the feel of his old leather jacket, giving him the security he needed. His walk had to look at least a little okay, Dean hoped, half-heartedly striking a pose right in front of Cas with a stony, runway-model-like facial expression.

“Cut!”

Dean winced. Immediately, his posture collapsed like a house of cards, and he turned to Cas with a groan you’d hear from an annoyed high school student.

When Dean looked at him, Cas just stared back, saying nothing.

“That bad, huh”, Dean said, giving an insecure laugh.

“Dean. How many times have you been on a catwalk before?”

“Uh”, Dean said, scratching his cheek, “fashion shows, you ask? Uh, let me count… one… uh, two… does the catwalk in my parent’s home count? ‘Cause I’ve played on there as a kid a _bazillion_ times.”

“Dean?”

The tone of voice that Cas evinced allowed no more bull shit.

“One”, Dean admitted, quietly. “I was a kid. I tripped. Kinda ruined the whole show, I guess. At least in my Dad’s eyes. Ever since that day, it’s been radio silence between me and the big stages.”

Dean, not really being one to go for the heart-to-hearts (ever), looked at Cas for advice… or a little understanding, at least. His heart was beating a little faster. However, Cas said nothing. His face didn’t, either. Terrific.

“Boy”, Dean said with biting sarcasm in his voice. “Feels good now that that’s out in the open. Now, how do I get myself out of the contract again?”

Finally, Cas looked back at him. Under that fiery stare, Dean shrunk.

“You don’t.”

“Ten years of watching _America’s-Next-Topmodel_ ain’t gonna help me out here, man”, Dean hissed through his teeth. He tugged at his leather jacket’s sleeve. “I ain’t the Tyra Banks kinda guy.”

“You will be”, Cas said, staring at Dean like a blue-eyed, furious psycho. Did the dude ever blink? “Do it again. This time, try looking at _me_. Do not think of your father. And take off that… jacket. Not only is it out of date, I also have the impression that it’s holding you back.”

“Screw you, Cas”, Dean bitched.

“I’m doing this for _you_ , Dean.”

“Yeah. Right. And who’s paying you?”

Cas’ eyes went a darker shade of blue. “No one. Now do as I told you.”

“Well”, Dean said, his heart beating even faster now. Sonofabitch was scary, but not too much so to scare Dean. “Why don’t you get down on it first, Mr. _Krushnic_ ”, Dean suggested as if he wasn’t talking to a famous runway model, childishly folding his arms. “I’d like to see you do it any better than me.”

Cas seemed as if he was about to knife Dean. “We don’t have time for that.”

Dean stepped closer to him. “Then we better make time.”

Probably boiling on the inside, Cas was first to break the connection ( _I won_ , Dean thought) and rushed past Dean, and at first he thought Cas was finally fed up with him and was going to leave him standing here. Dean was surprised at the sense of fear that overcame him at the idea. As it turned out, however, Cas was a resilient little guy. He made his way to Dean’s former position at the very beginning of the runway, trench coat fluttering around his legs.

Dean watched him go, pissed-off. And a little jealous. Cas was moving with such grace, even when he wasn’t even trying.

A few technicians stopped their work in anticipation.

Cas turned around, calmly facing Dean for a moment. They made eye-contact, and Dean’s mouth went dry. Then, Cas simply snapped his fingers, and started moving his legs, and his hips, and holy shit—it quickly turned out that Dean really was crap.

How Cas was doing it, it really looked so _easy._ He had one hand loosely hidden inside one pocket of his black pants, and the other one was swinging with his walking rhythm like it was the most natural thing in the world. His steps: big, rapid and determined. Bam, bam, bam. His face was all relaxed and his chin slightly raised. Just enough so to make Dean a little weak in the knees.

Cas struck a pose right in front of Dean, and suddenly Dean’s look was all over him.

He couldn’t help it, because damn— _Castiel Krushnic, man._

“So?” Cas concluded, as though he didn’t very well know how good he was. A few technicians were cheering and hooting, and Cas turned to them. “Thank you.”

But then, eagerly, he turned back again. Dean ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. His head was empty, except that his brain appeared to be wallpapered with Cas’ suggestive picture for Boys Weekly that he had forgotten all about up until this moment.

“That was”, Dean began, tearing his look away from Cas’ crotch. Jeez, how did his eyes end up _there?_ “That was pretty awesome, man. But I’m sure you know that yourself.”

“I do, actually. I need to be informed of such things, because I’m making my money with them.”

“You don’t say”, Dean huffed. He shook his head, realizing his eyes were being adventurous again. “Well, anyway. I guess I can go home now after all. ‘Cause you’ve just made me realize that I suck. Big-time. Guess that Bobby dude was right.”

“Dean, I didn’t intend to intimidate you”, Cas replied. Cas’ hand landed on Dean’s shoulder, and it hit Dean like an electric shock. “I only followed your wish. Just try to think of me when you’re out here later.”

Dean thought of the Boys Weekly picture. _I better won’t_ , he thought.

“Picture me walking and try to do the same, but with your own touch”, Cas elaborated. “That’ll be your recipe for success, I promise.”

“You think?” Dean asked, doubtfully, daring to meet Cas’ eyes.

The anger in Cas’ eyes had given way to a soft brilliance. 

“Absolutely”, Cas insisted.

“Sounds too easy. I don’t trust it.”

“I do.”

“Well, okay, then”, Dean gave in, charmed. “I’ll be out here, imitating the great Castiel Krushnic, like the loser that I am.”

Cas frowned. “Imitation is the highest form of appreciation.”

“Shut up."

*

The best feeling in the world was just _knowing_ that you did well, without even needing any confirmation or approval of it. You just _knew_ , ‘cause what you did, or created, felt so right and true to yourself that endorphins washed those gnawing self-doubts right down the drain. Regardless, a little approval didn’t hurt, Dean found. That was especially so when it was coming out of a strict teacher’s mouth.

“I think our work here is done, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t bite back his huge grin, still posing in front of Cas with both hands hidden in his pockets and his legs apart, like the lead singer of a boy band during the early 2000s. Cas seemed to dig his amateur posing, though. Finally earning positive feedback from him was giving Dean the last chunk of confidence he’d needed. He _could_ do this, somehow.

Cas didn’t exactly smile back at him, but he wasn’t wearing his grim, the-apocalypse-is-near frown anymore, either. Dean read that as a good sign. Not thinking twice about it, he simply went ahead and pulled Cas in for a one-armed, loose hug and for a moment everything was great, despite Cas not hugging him back. When they parted, Dean patted Cas on the back, taking note of how firm that back felt under his palm. Now Cas was frowning again after all. _I’d love to know what’s going on inside the little dude’s head_ , Dean thought.

“Thanks for helping me, man”, Dean said. “Without you, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

“That is true”, Cas confirmed. “After all, it was me who convinced your brother of inviting you to come after seeing your pictures.”

Dean’s eyes went wide. “That was you?”

“Of course. Well, he briefly suggested you. But it was me who wouldn’t accept any other choice. It _had_ to be you.”

“You haven’t been wrong”, Dean said, smirking. Then, he hesitated. “Right? You _haven’t_ been wrong. You’re not regretting it?”

“Dean. You’re a quick learner. I believe that you’ll surprise everyone, above all yourself. Tonight is going to be a banquet. You’ll be the chef’s new specialty that everyone will desire a piece of.”

“Poetic.”

“Thank you”, Cas dead-panned.

They exchanged a long look. Dean couldn’t help thinking about whether or not the aforementioned ‘everyone’ was going to include Cas. Was he going to desire a piece of Dean? He quickly shooed the thought away.

Cas, luckily not a mind-reader, ducked his head. All of a sudden, he appeared a lot younger than he was, and reminded Dean of a shy boy in a movie who was about to ask his crush out on a date. Dean wasn’t entirely sure why, but his own heartbeat suddenly became a whole lot more palpable.

“We still have thirty minutes left before we need to get our hair done”, Cas began. Carefully, he looked up at Dean, and Dean’s heart didn’t exactly _stop_ , but it sure did skip a beat. From then on, everything went slow-motion. “It’s still plenty of time until the fitting. So… Would you like to go for a quick coffee with me?”

_Sonofabitch,_ Dean thought, freezing.

_A date. He wants to date me._

His thoughts terrorizing him with a steady chant of the words 'date' and 'Cas', Dean tried staying rational. From the outside, it probably looked like he was having a silent argument with himself. Which, granted, was kind of what was happening. He frowned, closed his eyes, shook his head. Almost replied, then didn't. Rinse and repeat.

_No, it’s not, knucklehead. Not a date. What else are you two supposed to do besides going out for a coffee? There’s spare time, and he wants to fill it up. With joint coffee drinking. Nothing wrong with that._

_Yeah, wise guy, but spare time probably ain’t the only thing he’s planning to fill up._

_What?_

_Nothing! I didn’t say anything!_

_Yes, you did!_

_Oh, sonofa—_

“Shut your pie-holes, you two!” Dean yelled.

Far too loudly. The A1 acoustics of the concert hall made his scream sound like thunder.

He ripped his eyes open to check on Cas, who seemed as if he was about to make a call for the men in the white jackets. A technician, who’d been busy putting up a scaffolding near them, stopped with his screw-wrench hanging in the air and turned to stare at Dean in confusion.

He hadn’t really _yelled_ , had he?

Dean swallowed, which turned out to be almost impossible, with his throat being drier than the cookies he’d munched back in the show runner’s office. “M’sorry, you were asking?”

“Coffee”, Cas repeated, slowly, studying Dean's face intently like a biologist who’d spied a newfound species of insects. “Would you like to go drink it with me?”

Now on top of all Dean broke out in sweat.

“I—don’t know. Maybe?”

Cas narrowed his eyes to slits. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing! I—I just…”

_… Kinda feel attracted to you, and it’s scaring the pants off of me._

“You don’t like coffee?” Cas guessed.

“Yes! That’s it! Why didn’t I come up with that?” Dean hissed. “I mean, yeah, no, sorry ‘bout that, pal. You enjoy your coffee, and I’ll just try to calm my nerves somewhere around here.”

Cas hesitated. Then, he said: “I imagine there’ll be croissants, too.”

Now that was just… evil. Dean’s mouth was watering up just at the thought of fluffy, cloud-like croissants, which he’d been dying to stuff his face with ever since they’d landed in Paris. There just hadn’t been time yet. Up until now, that was. Still, Dean persisted. But then the be-all and the end-all of French pastries came to his mind from God knows where and it wasn’t like his mouth could be stopped from asking the following question.

“Will there be éclairs?”

Cas nodded. “Of course.”

A weird moment was formed where Dean smiled at Cas, and Cas smiled at Dean, both knowing that the deal was sealed. Dean had never seen Cas look so delighted, with his eyes glowing so warmly.

Suddenly, someone loudly cleared their throat behind Dean’s back.

Crap. He’d totally forgotten where they were.

Dean broke away from the intimate eye-contact, his face feeling all hot and bouncy. The doorman—and manager, apparently—Bobby was standing right in front of them on the catwalk, accusingly glaring at them.

“Your ‘practicing hour’ is over, boys”, Bobby grumbled, fumbling with his checklist. “We need the stage for some technical check-ups now. I hope your ‘cat walk training’ was successful, Cas. Or whatever you two’ve been doing together this whole time.”

“Very successful”, Cas confirmed, proudly looking at Dean.

Under his gaze, Dean blushed even harder. This, whatever the hell was going on, was a friggin' nightmare.


	4. Like Long Ago

A breathy French singing voice lulled the people crowding the café—or _boulangerie_ , as Cas had called it.

When they’d hurried down the drizzly streets of Paris ten minutes earlier, Cas’ French-heavy description of their destination had been as clear as mud to Dean, and he’d been a little worried about where they’d end up. The place had turned out pretty nice, though, and the live music wasn’t exactly Metallica, but it was tolerable. And the croissants? The éclairs? Jesus Christ. Just bury Dean in French pastries, s’il vous plaît.

Cas sat opposite of Dean.

Their round, small table for two had a short leg and you couldn’t lean your elbow on it without spilling coffee. Cas took a sip of his double espresso and hummed with content. Then, he opened his mouth, hesitating. Dean looked him in the eyes. Cas shut his mouth again and began studying the table top instead. Without even realizing it, Dean followed his example, and took note of the frantic traces that a wet cloth had left there. Why, oh why were they suddenly so awkward? Dean cleared his throat, and with the intention of finally ending this horrendous silence between them, he leaned his elbow on the table, a hilarious jab at Cas coming right up.

Before he could say anything, however, Dean was silenced by the clank of Cas’ espresso mug. Black liquid spilled all over the damn table.   

“Oh”, Cas said, frowning.

“What’s wrong with this friggin’ table!” Dean scolded. He reached for a napkin to clean up the mess.

“It’s alright, Dean. I was already quite awake.”

“Well, good for you. Still, this table friggin’ sucks.”

“Well, we could change our table, if you’d like.”

“No, thanks. I’m done with tables.”

A pause. Both of them settled down again from the sudden fuss and it was back to gaping lack of conversation.

“Tell me about your first casting, Dean”, Cas then required, out of the blue.

Dean downed another éclair, looking like a hamster with puffed cheeks. “S’was great. Yours?”

Cas frowned. “I prefer not to talk about it.”

Dean leaned forward. The table dangerously tipped to the other side, forcing him to sit back again. “That’s interesting”, Dean said, mockingly. “The Angel’s got a dirty secret.”

“It’s not… dirty.”

“Once more with less lying.”

“Dean. I would like to change the subject.”

“Fine. Kinda doubting there’s gonna be anything more interesting than that, though.”

Cas sipped his coffee, run out of words. Dean munched away on his croissant, feeling pretty much the same. This conversation was proceeding as smoothly as a car with a flat tire, Dean thought. At least there were the pastries.

“So, you’re a photo model”, Cas stated after another minute had passed, never running out of those intriguing conversation openers. “What’s your best quality according to the photographers?”

Dean pouted. “Take a guess.”

Cas’ gaze wandered down to Dean’s mouth. “Your lips.”

“Congrats, you scooped the prize”, Dean declared, wiping some cream from the corner of his mouth.

Cas wasn’t looking away anymore, though. No, anything but that. He studied Dean’s lips as though they were a prestigious exhibition piece, and Dean’s hand froze in the air, napkin pressed to his lips.

“My, uh”, Dean began, his voice breaking awkwardly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “My eyes are up here, man.”

Cas, basically caught with his hands in the cookie jar, winced and directed his attention towards the table top. “My apologies. Your lips, they’re… truly one-of-a-kind.”

“What’s yours?” Dean quickly asked, flushing, even though he’d heard other descriptions of his lips before that definitely _should_ ’ve made him blush, but hadn’t. “Your… winning quality. Your capital, so to speak. What brings home the bacon?”

Cas looked up at Dean. “Take a g—“

“Your eyes.”

Cas ducked his head, smiling. “Yes.”

“I’m great at this game”, Dean said, feeling funny when Cas was smiling like that. Suddenly, while staring at Cas’ face with fascination, he felt the strong urge to get to know the guy better. Most importantly, he was eager to find out about Cas’ dirty secret.

“Hey, you wanna hear a story?” Dean asked.

Cas didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“At my first casting, I was eight years old”, Dean began, cozying up on the table as much as he could without tipping it. Cas imitated him, and the room seemed to grow smaller and quiet down, somehow. Someone had turned down the volume, it seemed. “Just a stupid little kid, really. I thought to myself, man, when I grow up, I’m gonna be a food taster for cereal.”

Dean gave a quiet smile at the memory. Cas did the same.

“You get the idea”, Dean went on. “That was around the time my Dad had set his mind on seeing my face all over the city. So, one day after school he dragged me to a casting for some candy bar ad. Hell if I remember which one. So, when we got there, we had to do a whole lot of waiting, ‘cause even back then there were more than enough crazy parents out there looking to vicariously live through their kids. I spent thirty minutes staring at a painting on the wall. I remember thinking it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.”

“Art is very subjective”, Cas commented. “It does not necessarily equal beauty.”

“Dude. It was one butt ugly painting. It’s still haunting me after all these years. Anyways, talent scout finally calls me in. I stand where he wants, pull the faces he wants me to, the usual deal. Then, he says to me: ‘kid, you’re pretty as a picture’.”

Dean laughed, shaking his head. “I friggin’ bawled my eyes out, man. Took my Dad a whole lotta time to explain to me that the dude hadn’t been comparing my face to that painting in the lobby.”

Cas smiled again over the rim of his coffee mug. “Your first casting wasn’t very nice.”

“I’d say that much.” Dean paused. “Now you.”

The relaxation on Cas’ face disappeared, as well as his smile. Another expression flashed across his facial features, but at first glance Dean couldn’t quite pin it down. Sadness, maybe. Possibly something more severe than that. Before Cas had the chance to say anything in reply and despite all curiosity, Dean decided to drop the topic.

“Hey, you wanna try one of these babies?” He asked, holding up the only éclair he had left with a cheeky grin. One nutty sacrifice, he was aware of that, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for Cas, even though he had no idea why.

Cas’ smile came to life again, albeit with caution. “Dean, they are yours. And unlike you I intend to fit into my outfit later.”

“To hell with that”, Dean said, dangling the pastry in front of Cas’ nose. “This is my ‘thank you’ to you. For being a great teach.”

Cas struggled visibly. Then, he sighed. “I suppose one bite won’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Cas took one _huge_ bite, cream dropping onto his chin. Dean laughed. Cas seemed a little embarrassed, but very happy all the same. He said so with his mouth full. Without giving it further thought, Dean quickly wiped the cream off of Cas’ cheek and chin and ( _how?_ ) collar bone. Cas froze, following Dean’s movement with confused looks.

When Dean was done, Cas gulped loudly. Dean saw that Cas’ cheeks were as clean as ever now, but slightly rosier than usual, and his eyes seemed a little bigger than usual, too.

“You were all…” Dean muttered, making a vague gesture all over Cas’ face.

Cas didn’t really reply, except for a small “oh”.

*

“Finally”, Sam exhaled.

He was apparently waiting for Dean and Cas in front of the back entrance Paris Fashion Week where the show would get going in about one and a half hours. Sam slipped his cell phone into his back pocket and stomped up to them, big question mark on his face.

“Finally what?” Dean asked, snappishly. Cas and him came to a stop in front of the giant.

“Well, where the hell have you two been?” Sam asked in return. Then, he turned to Cas. “And why didn’t you answer my messages, man?”

“Dude, chill”, Dean simply said, trying to squeeze past Sam. “We just went for a coffee.”

“And French pastries”, Cas added.

“Oh, okay, you just ‘went for a coffee’”, Sam repeated, scoffing. “Are you two even aware of how big this show is? You don’t just walk away for half an hour without telling a single soul about it! Everyone went crazy in there, and I’ve heard that within the last ten minutes two hairdressers had a mental breakdown because of you two!”

Dean stopped. He angrily turned to Cas, who simply stared at him innocently. “Dammit, Cas, you told me this was okay! I don’t know shit about how runway shows work. I trusted you!”

“I guess I thought I had certain privileges”, Cas simply said, shrugging.

“Privileges?” Sam repeated, showing up next to Cas. “Who do you think you are, Cas? Do you think you’re better than the guys in there or something?”

“No, Sam, of course not”, Cas replied with an eye roll. “I’m going to personally apologize to the hairdressers.”

“Well, you better”, Sam insisted. Then, he turned to Dean. “Are you well prepared, at least, Dean? Do you think it’ll be okay in there for you? You look pretty relaxed.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m pretty relaxed, all right. Cas taught me his superpowers, so I guess you won’t have to pay for my failure, Sam.”

Sam sighed. “I didn’t mean it that way. I _know_ that you’re talented.”

“Sure thing, man”, Dean waved him off, and the three of them got going towards the back door. “I don’t give a damn about your opinion, anyway. At least Cas thinks that I kick ass. That’s good enough for me.”

“Oh, yes”, Cas confirmed. “Dean truly ‘kicks ass’, Sam.”

Sam smiled, holding the door open for them. “Honestly, I’m already proud of you, Dean.”

Dean turned to Sam, sneering. The hall was jam-packed with people running around like startled ants and calling orders.

“Thanks, Stanford”, Dean said testily, nervousness swelling up in his guts again, soon to be exploding. “But you can shove your pride up your ass, respectfully. ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t need it.”

Sam bitch-faced at him, heading off to the fitting room. “Just wanted to let you know, Dean.”

Dean stood staring after Sam for a moment.

For a second, Dean’s mind was blank, except for the words _help me, help me, help me._ Luckily, he managed to get a grip. He still wasn’t entirely sure what he was even doing here, because he felt like he was sticking out like a sore thumb with his ragged, dirty clothes among all of these professionals and troupers, didn’t _belong_ , but he sure as hell hadn’t endured a friggin’ transatlantic plane ride just to end up begging his dick-ish brother for runway help or life advice.

“So, Cas”, Dean began just when some meager model chick bumped into him and gave him a judgmental once-over, confirming Dean’s paranoid thoughts. “What’s next? Aren’t we gonna follow the big guy?”

“Next, I believe we are needed at the—“

“Fuck, what am I doing here, Cas?”

“Well, right now you’re… just standing, I suppose”, Cas replied seriously, as if Dean’s question hadn’t been rhetorical.

Dean’s shoulders tensed while another horde of models passed him by and heavily judged him. Dean had a weird flashback to his old high-school days, and of course Cas noticed his rising discomfort.

“You can do this, Dean”, Cas reassured him. “You’re twice as good as most of the models who ran here for years. Trust me.”

“You’re just saying this to bed me”, Dean joked lamely.

Cas’ hesitated, and now he was looking sort of shy, giving a little half-shrug, which was both weird and adorable. “I—I don’t…”

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off Cas. “Just joking. Man, you’re a little behind on that whole sarcasm thing, aren’t you?”

Cas turned his head to him, cocking it slightly, his look saying: _Are you sure about that?_

Dean wasn’t, wasn’t sure about anything right now, and swallowed.

Cas didn’t seem to have expected an honest reaction like that, and his winning smile faded, until he was just studying Dean’s features intensely, making him nervous as fuck, as if he wasn’t tense as a wire already, thank you very much. As if he could read his mind, Cas’ hand suddenly landed on Dean’s shoulder, and immediately Dean felt a little better. He made the mistake to meet Cas’ eyes then, meaning to non-verbally thank him for giving a shit about him, and instead found himself wondering just what the hell exactly Cas wanted from him, because Cas’ look on him felt as soft as a tender caress.

A red-headed girl bumped into Dean’s shoulder then, making the two of them snap back into reality.

Dean mumbled an apology, and the over-worked looking girl adjusted her headset. Then, she pointed at the two of them, relieved.

“Cas and the new guy, right?” She asked, smilingly. She cuffed Cas’ shoulder, and Cas smiled adorably. “Dude, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. No more running away, okay?”

“Of course”, Cas said, and turned to Dean. “This is Charlie Bradbury, Dean. She travels all around the world and helps building the stages. And she makes sure that there’s always enough food for everyone.”

“I save lives”, Charlie corrected, smiling at Dean. Dean shook her hand. “It wouldn’t be too far-fetched to call me a superhero, actually. I’m kind of like Hermione from Harry Potter. Or at least I try to be. She’s awesome, right?”

“Right”, Dean replied, slightly overwhelmed. He looked at Cas for help. “So what’s happening next?”

“Aw”, Charlie made, briefly adjusting Dean’s messy plane hair. “He’s such a newbie, Cas. It’s adorable.”

“Hey, I ain’t adorable!”

“That’s your opinion”, Cas said, gaze fixed on Charlie.

Dean dramatically rolled his eyes at him.

“You guys”, Charlie commented, charmed. “Congratulations, you win the cutest couple of the year award. But anyway, I hate to tell you that it’s time for you to part ways right about yesterday. Cas, hair. Dean, fitting. _Now.”_

She shooed them apart, and Dean immediately could feel himself become a complete bag of nerves. He hadn’t realized how comfortable Cas had made him feel. Now he’d have to go through all of this alone.

Dean spotted one final glimpse of Cas in the crowd. He was mouthing _good luck_ at him and raising one thumb. That made Dean feel a little less lost.

Temporarily.

*

Dean was nervously waiting in line for his run, heart pulsating in his throat and making him feel dizzy. The show had started five minutes ago, and the horrible runway music was all around him now, much like back in Sam's car, only worse. It was impossible to hear one’s own thoughts. Charlie was standing next to the stage entrance, rhythmically giving the models a go to enter the runway. Cas had already performed his first round, and Dean had followed his run on some small TV screen that was installed backstage.

Cas had made everyone’s jaws drop. The people outside had worshipped him, and Cas had clearly enjoyed the feel of the runway and the crowd’s undivided attention. He’d posed at the head of the runway like this whole thing wasn’t a big deal at all. Like this was just another day in the life. Dean was pretty sure that Cas had even pulled some sort of flirty face, because even with the ear-deafening music, Dean had heard the audience go wild outside. Or possibly they just loved him that much.

_Newbies_ like Dean, however, could never afford pulling something like that off.

_Newbies_ like Dean could be happy with even surviving a show this big.

When Cas had come back backstage afterwards, even some of the most narcissistic-looking models had cheered at him, and Cas had been beaming proudly.

Sammy was waiting for his turn somewhere far behind Dean, probably all composed and Zen-like, whereas Dean was feeling friggin' nauseous.

Dean’s hair all gelled and straight, a little eyeliner smeared around his lashes (Dean friggin’ hated make-up in his face) and some tight, black jumpsuit with a knot in the middle apparently made for an A1 outfit in the eyes of the designer. On his feet were red cowboy boots, and for some reason the designer had ordered Dean at the last minute to wear a weirdly dotted bandana around his mouth.

_Friggin’ fashion_.

Dean knew it was unprofessional, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly ridiculous, even if he was probably sporting forty thousand dollars altogether. At least Dean hadn’t been forced to slip into high-heels or something. Because Dean seriously didn’t do high-heels.

But then again, he’d sworn to himself that he’d never do runways, either.

But here he was.

About to run in front of _ten thousand people._

In friggin’ _Paris._

Dean took a deep breath. Only one more model, and then it was his turn. He tried getting into the beat, snipping his fingers like Cas had taught him. His hands were shaking.

He opened his eyes right on time. Charlie waved him inside. Automatically, Dean’s feet started moving, and it felt like entering a dream.

First, he passed some short hall where he couldn’t be seen yet, but he was already on stage, and a model was just professionally making its way backstage in front of him. Dean briefly thought about simply crossing the runway and following the other model. Then, he’d simply take off these fugly designer clothes and escape home.

_Move, Winchester._

Dean winced and entered the stage, hoping that his hesitation hadn’t already fucked up the time schedule. Dean stuffed his hands into the jumpsuit’s pockets, and tried to think of Cas and what they’d practiced on this exact runway earlier, but his mind was empty. He just moved forward. Couldn’t put thought into it.

There were _so_ many people.

Luckily, there wasn’t much light on the audience, so Dean simply stared at some spot in the distance, ignoring them, kind of like the first walk he'd done for Cas. But he couldn’t ignore the weakness of his legs, or the nausea in his head, the vulnerability he was feeling.

Dean gulped.

Crap.

_No swallowing or lip-biting, Dean_ , Cas had ordered him earlier.

_We're still talking about the runway, right,_ Dean had replied, friggin' hilarious if you asked him.

Now Dean couldn’t suppress a nervous smile.

Double crap.

Now he was so glad for the stupid bandana around his face. He’d already fucked up, hadn’t he? Losing even more his composure, Dean accidentally looked into the audience— _cardinal error_ , his mind screamed, but it was too late—and made eye-contact with some chick. Wasn’t that Kim Kardashian? That’d been Kim Kardashian.

_Number one rule of the catwalk, Dean_ , Cas had taught him patiently. _The audience doesn’t exist. Never ever look into the crowd._

Suddenly, Dean had reached the head of the runway. Crap, how was he supposed to pose? There wasn’t any time. Dean braced one arm against his hip, put all of his weight on one leg, and weirdly looked up at the ceiling. He was blinded by the lights and blinked, irritated. Even if it’d been only three seconds, Dean already knew that it must’ve looked horrible while turning around.

At least the end was near now.

There was still time to save his performance.

Dean passed another model, and copied his movements. Yeah, that felt better. He really was kicking ass now. Cas had been right—

—Dean tripped up on his own feet.

It all happened so quickly.

Ten thousand pairs of eyes on him, Dean didn’t just stumble like a normal person, but full-on dashed against the lit, slippery floor, landing on his stomach, and all air squeezed out of his lungs, his teeth clicking painfully.


End file.
